THE GRASS BECOMES LANGUAGE

You can play crazy artist until it’s clear even to yourself that you are going to age quite clumsily. You are crazy. You should have realized by now that art is unholy as any other busy—something they say is good to keep without ever explaining why. And once you discard it, such homilies render themselves utterly inscrutable. The cud can be brought back up into your mouth again and again until the grass becomes language, until it seems to take on a life of its own. That is your think. You think life is owned, which is why you think it ends.